What Do You Call It?  Whatchamacallit
by ilovetvalot
Summary: Written for the Candyland Challenge on Chit Chat on Author's Corner.  An expectant Garcia sends Morgan on a wild goose chase.


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_**Written for the "Candyland Challenge" for Chit Chat on Author's Corner Forum. My prompts were Morgan/Garcia and a Whatchamacallit.**_

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**What Do You Call It? Whatchamacallit.**

Most days, Derek Morgan relished his new role in life. How could he be anything less than thrilled? He was the expectant father to what was sure to be the world's most adored daughter, compliments of the most loving and endearing woman in his world.

Penelope Garcia was giving him the gift of life. There was no length he wouldn't travel for her...no quest for his Baby Girl was insurmountable…no task she could give him was too great.

Well, almost no task.

It had started with a phone call. A perfectly innocent call while he'd been on his way back home to her and their unborn daughter. Closing his eyes, he replayed the conversation in his head for the tenth time.

He'd been minding his own business, playing chess with Reid when his phone had rang. Glancing down at the display screen, his smile had been the only explanation the rest of his team had needed to identify the caller.

He only smiled like that for one woman these days. And as David Rossi was quick to point out…my, how the mighty had fallen.

"Baby Girl? What's my baby's mama doing tonight?" he had asked with a glance down at the watch on his wrist. 11:15. All prospective mamas should have been snug in their beds by that time, shouldn't they?

"Where are you, Handsome?" she'd asked, her voice containing just the barest hint of an edge.

"Currently," he had replied, glancing out his darkened window of the jet, "I believe we're somewhere over Maryland. Pilot said we're due to land in ten."

"Perfect," Garcia had said, her satisfaction evident with his current location. "I need a favor, lover...or rather, our little girl does."

"You okay, Princess?" Morgan had asked worriedly as he had straightened suddenly.

"I'm fine. I just didn't particularly feel like dragging myself out in the dead of night for a Whatchamacallit."

"Huh?" he'd grunted, his brows drawing together as he tried to decipher Penelope-speak. Obviously, that had been one of the phrases that he had apparently missed in his years-long education.

"I need a Whatchamacallit in the worst way, my chocolate flavored G-man. I need one badly," Pen had said, inserting just the right amount of deprivation into her tone. "Get me one, pretty please?" she'd pled.

"You know I'll get you anything your heart desires, Princess," Morgan had told her gently. "Just tell me what you want, Sweetness. Your wish is my command."

"A Whatchamacallit," she'd said again, louder this time.

"I don't know, baby, what do you call it?" Morgan had frowned, a dull ache throbbing in the base of his neck as her words echoed around his already-overworked mind.

"A Whatchamacallit," Pen had insisted, her tone now clearly indicating that she was growing frustrated with him. "Aren't you listening? Is there interference on the line, my Prince? Or have you gone deaf without telling me?"

"Baby Girl, what the hell is a Whatchamacallit?"

"The candy bar, my silly brown bear! Chocolate candy bar, peanuty goodness for a filling...you know, a Whatchamacallit," Penelope had described with a sigh, her voice filled with sheer doubt at this lack of confectionary knowledge. "Your daughter is determined to have it."

Oh, God, he'd silently groaned. A craving. The last craving mission she'd sent him on had ended with him wearing Strawberry Daiquiri ice cream. On his head. Because he bought the wrong brand.

Carefully keeping his voice neutral, he had asked, "Baby, I'm not even sure they make those anymore. I think the last time I ate one, the year was 1984."

"Oh, boo," Penelope had replied carelessly, obviously discounting his less than professional opinion, "They still make 'em. Just stop at the store on the way home and grab a couple for me, okay?"

Thankful that she couldn't see his visible cringe, Derek had obediently replied, "Okay, Sweetness. I'm on the case. You just try to get some rest and I'll be home in an hour or so."

"I'll see you then, my love. Huggles," Pen had said cheerfully before disconnecting.

Lifting his head, he'd looked around at the sympathetic faces of his colleagues who'd lived through the ice cream debacle right along with him. "Anybody know where I can find a Whatchamacallit?" he'd asked hopefully, his eyes searching each team member's face.

Watching as his five teammates had shook their heads in unison, Morgan had barely suppressed his groan as Hotch had murmured, "No, but if I were you, I wouldn't go home without one. And don't attempt a substitute this time. I'm pretty sure being pelted with chocolate will hurt a lot more than being doused in ice cream."

And closing his eyes, he'd begun to pray.

Of course, God wasn't particularly interested in answering his prayers tonight, Morgan thought two hours later as he stood in his tenth convenience store of the night staring at yet another apathetic clerk. No...the Almighty was too busy having a good laugh.

At his expense.

"Whatdaya call it?" the pimply faced teen behind the counter asked for the fourth time, his face scrunched in confusion.

"A Whatchamacallit," Morgan bit out, striving not to lose his temper as the youth rolled his eyes.

"That's what I asked you, dude," the clerk replied sarcastically. "Whatdaya call it?"

Glaring at the guy, Morgan barely suppressed his rage. He was tired. He was coming off a five day case where he had been away from his new wife...his expectant wife...for more days than he was comfortable with at a normal time in their life, let alone now. He wanted to see and hold his Baby Girl. Preferably in his bed. WHILE she ate her damn candy bar!

And this stoner was standing between him and progress. Exactly how many doobies had this guy smoked before work?

"Look, kid, first I'm not 'dude'. I'm a sir. Second, I'm looking for a Whatchamacallit. It's a candy bar. Chocolate with peanut filling. Does this joint have anything along those lines?" Morgan asked sharply.

"Okay, sir," the checkout guy drawled, the lack of respect dripping in his voice, "I've never heard of a Whatchamacallit. Sounds like something my gramps would scarf on. But," he said, pointing toward the candy racks, "what you see is what we got."

"Gee, thanks for all your valuable assistance," Morgan growled derisively, turning and walking out the swinging glass door as the employee cackled behind him.

Glad he could provide entertainment to the little punk, Morgan thought, striding toward his car and throwing himself inside. Good to know somebody could still laugh while he was facing a judge and jury at home that would have no mercy when learning of his failure.

Sighing, he knew he couldn't put off the inevitable any longer. He had to head home.

And face the wrath of a goddess. Damn, he hoped she was feeling benevolent tonight.

Fifteen minutes later, Morgan parked his truck in his familiar parking space and glanced up at the mostly dark building in front of him.

Maybe she'd be asleep...maybe she wouldn't learn of his candy catastrophe until the morning...maybe Hotch would sprout wings from his ass and catapult into flight.

That was certainly likelier than him escaping Baby Girl's ire scot-free.

Sighing, Morgan climbed out of his vehicle and jogged toward their apartment complex. Passing the laundry room, he paused abruptly outside the door. Nah, he thought, peering inside the glass door at the vending machines, his life couldn't be that simple, could it? He couldn't get that lucky.

But, he had to try. If there was the slimmest chance in hell of making it through this night unscathed, he had to take it. Tugging open the door, he stepped inside the quiet room and strode toward the machines in the corner. Eyes scanning the contents, he pumped his fist in the air and whooped as he spotted it.

One itty bitty teeny tiny more valuable than any gold candy bar. The Whatchamacallit.

He could almost taste his victory as he thrust his hand into his jean clad pocket, searching for that elusive fifty cents. Eyes widening dramatically as he pulled his hand out, one dime and one quarter shining amid the lint from his pocket, he moaned.

"No!" he wailed. "No, no, no!"

Lifting his eyes to the flashing green lights on the machine, he spotted the dollar bill slot.

"Thank you, God," he praised, fishing out his wallet and pulling the only dollar bill he had from its depths...his crumpled, wrinkled single dollar bill. Smoothing it against his thigh as best he could, he attempted to insert it.

Seventeen times.

But, the fates and the Almighty had conspired against him.

Banging his head against the machine, he knew there was only one option left.

And it wasn't going upstairs empty handed.

Pulling his phone out, he scrolled down through the numbers, searching for the building's super. Jabbing it with his finger, he waited, tapping his foot against the tiled floor.

"Jake?" he asked when a sleepy voice answered. "It's Derek Morgan, man. I'm down in the laundry room. Yeah, I know what time it is. Look, man, I'm sorry...I know five AM comes early. Yeah, I do realize that you have business hours. No, I'm not dead in my apartment. Man, just shut up!" Morgan finally barked, lifting a hand to rub his bald head. "I'll pay you a five hundred dollars if you'll come open this vending machine up down here and let me get this Whatchamacallit out," he offered.

He wanted to scream. He really did. "A What. YOU. Ma. Call. It," he enunciated each word with the force of a bullet. "It's a freaking candy bar man!" he yelped, lack of sleep and panic swirling inside his tired brain colliding, making his words frenzied.

"I'll be here," he nodded, flipping his phone closed as a sense of accomplishment assailed him.

And with a grim smile, he settled back to wait for the key to his continued well-being.

Derek Morgan always got his man.

Or, his candy bar, as the case may be this time.

_**Finis**_


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